my only weakness, is knowing your secrets
by Pieequals36
Summary: A tale of Sam and Freddie's evolving relationship as illustrated through the secrets they share. Sam/Freddie, one-shot.


**Title:** my only weakness, is knowing your secrets

**Rating**: T (for swearing and mild sexual references)

**Synopsis: **Sam and Freddie trade secrets over time.

**Status: **Completed.

* * *

><p><em>We dance round in a ring and suppose,<em>

_ But the Secret sits in the middle and knows. – __**Robert Frost**_

* * *

><p><em>i. <em>

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Sam and Freddie were (once upon a time) good friends. Or as close to friends as two ten year olds can be. They were the three musketeers; Carly, Freddie and Sam, inseparable and enviously fun. Freddie could remember Sam being cruel back then but it was very rarely directed at him. He remembered feeling fortunate for having someone (even if it was a small blonde girl) protecting him from the older bigger boys on the playground and she would do it without question. Of course even back then his mother was disapproving of her influence but Freddie was fond of the wild seven year old by his side. He would even dare say he admired her.

Back then Freddie was a measly, meek child with not much in the way of breadth or height. Add to that persistent nerdish tendencies and the boy was bound to be a prime target for older, though perhaps none the wiser children in jungle gym. Sam was his opposite; strong, brash and confident and, unlike many of the bigger boys, she possessed the fighting skills to back up any smack talk to which she might engage. She was quite impressive in the roll-around-in-the-mud, catch weird bugs with sort of way.

But Carly was different. Carly carried around a Cabbage Patch kid like it was her life, cradled it with loving care and doted on it like it was a real child. She played Barbie's near the swings with the other girls (Sam wasn't allowed to play because she had a horrible tendency to break the dolls heads off). Carly tied her hair in pigtails and wore skirts and dresses. Carly was gentle and sweet and never played in the dirt. Carly was _nothing_ like her best friend Sam. Freddie liked having two friends on opposite ends of the spectrum - it meant he never got bored. But while if he fell and bruised his knee Carly would kiss it better, Sam was more likely to slap him in the back and tell him to get up and get on with it. He preferred Carly's method though this he would have never admitted to the blonde girl, until one day he couldn't hold it in any longer.

So one afternoon he dragged a dungaree clad Sam by the hand behind the swing set, pulled her close and cupped his hands around her ear. She leant in a little, tucking lengthy hair back out of his way.

"I want Carly to be my girlfriend," the boy admitted with a whisper and he felt his friend freeze before she stood up and pushed him roughly to the ground.

"Well tell her not me!" she scowled, fists coiling at her sides, "Nub."

That was the last secret Freddie Benson told Samantha Puckett for four years, partly because he was afraid of her and partly because the only times she spoke to him were to call him names and ridicule him along with the bullies.

Secrets, Freddie decided, were better off kept that way.

_ii. _

She had bruise.

He noticed it in gym class from across the large, brightly lit hall. It scored just along her jaw line marking the porcelain skin there. He wondered who she had let close enough to inflict the wound and he would have almost felt a little vindicated for the number of bruises she had given him over the years, if he instead he didn't feel overwhelming concern. The question haunted him – who had done that to her? He rationalized there was probably a number of reasonable explanations for the swirling dark lump near her chin but they weren't what he thought about. His mind automatically drew up a picture of the blonde's home life. Turbulent as it was, he didn't remember her saying anything about a new man in her mother's life or indeed anyone new that would pose such a physical threat. She had always led him to believe she could take care of herself in that respect anyway (not that he would really know, because she never told him anything worth knowing about _that_ stuff). So ultimately he ruled out anything domestic.

He then considered school – was she being bullied? It was a laughable thought the minute it popped into his head and he drew odd looks from his classmates when he chuckled aloud. "Sam Puckett" and "being bullied" did not really fit into the same line of logical thought. He dismissed this too.

His brain rallied on with images ranging from rough basketball fights to tumbles off bicycles. He made a resolve – he had to ask her. Thinking about it later, he was not sure why this was something he_ had_ to do, but he knew in his heart of hearts it was the only logical method in clearing the concern fogging his mind. Plus, at least then he would stop drawing up images of aliens, radar guns and Sam's plan to take over the universe. He really should have watched more football and less Galaxy Wars in his youth.

After gym, he caught her on the way out of the locker room, a hand on her shoulder.

"Do you have a death wish?" she admonished him for touching her, roughly shrugging him off.

"No, I-I," he stuttered off, gaze trailing to the floor.

She raised her eyebrows and sighed impatiently. "Anytime this century Benson."

"What happened your face?" he blurted in word jumble. He watched her expression change from a hard to soft look before she visibly shook it off and raised a fist just below his chin.

"None of your business Nub," she threatened, voice low. She waited to see if the he would be brave enough to hold his ground and push her on the issue but she seemed to silence him into submission. Just as she was turning to leave, he repeated the question albeit louder this time. It was enough for her to grip him by the collar and drag him into the now dark gym hall.

"Sam! What are you going to do to me?" he cried shrilly.

"What is with you and Carly?" she hissed in his face, "I have bruises all the time, why is this one any different?"

"Because usually you're not that careless," he replied, forgetting how scared he was just moments earlier. She scowled at him, eyes icy through honey blonde bangs.

"If I tell you will you just…" she gritted out pausing, "Will you just keep it a secret?"

He nodded, gulping as she loosened her hold on his blue polo shirt.

"I…fainted in the shower this morning," she admitted, blushing slightly, "Hit my face off the door on the way down." _That was it? That was her big revelation? Her big secret?_

"Wh-…are you sick or something?" he asked, puzzled. He could see how nervous she had gotten, playing with her hands like they had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world.

"_No,_" she said, gaze averted to her feet, "I…I took my…listen you know what Benson, it doesn't matter."

Her face was now bright crimson and Freddie struggled to comprehend why fainting in the shower would be such a big deal in th- _oh_.

"Oh," he gasped a little.

"Yeah, oh. And the only reason I'm telling you this," she whispered, glancing around anxiously, "is so you can put the word out that I got into a big fight with some biker dude and kicked his ass. So people will stop asking. Carly wouldn't do it for me, says she won't lie. She was all hyped up on how I'm a woman now or some crazy chiz."

It was already way to much information for a thirteen-year-old Freddie Benson, who stared back at her in abject horror, unconsciously moving away.

"What? What on earth are you doing Nerd-brain?" she exclaimed, confused, "You can't catch it!"

"You never know, science is discovering new ways you can catch chicken pox every day, why not this?" he stammered out, nervous.

"Oh for the love of…." She dragged off stepping back into his personal space, her fingers curling around the front of his shirt again. "Just do as I said and I won't pummel you into oblivion ok Nub?"

Freddie knew to do as she asked – he had heard that girls going through the change were not to be messed with. And Sam barely qualified as a human girl so he imagined _her_ change to be accompanied with a wide array of new violent tendencies. He was fully ready to agree and scuttle off, perhaps wash his ears out with soap but he noticed now that her head was bowed and her shoulders jerked a little up and down.

"Sam?" he ventured, "Are you ok?"

"I don't know," she sobbed, wiping at her eyes, "I'm so emotional all the time. I go from wanting to murder people to wanting to cry at them. Usually it's only murder. And Carly doesn't understand – apparently she took it really well."

The last part of her sentence turned into a vicious impression of her non-present best friend, air-quotes included, and Freddie backed up again withdrawing the hand that was (by its own accord) moving to her shoulder.

"Ugh! Why do I have to be a girl?" she screamed out, her voice echoing in the empty hall. He allowed a silence to pass, listening to her crying into her hand. Sam and Freddie did not have the sort of relationship that would involve much comforting or touching of any kind really, so he surprised himself when a tentative hand came up and rested on her shoulder, rubbing her there.

"Can't you talk to your mom?" he asked warily, wincing in preparation for the insults that were sure to come.

"Have you met my mom?" came the quiet snivel from the blonde, "She would probably give me a bottle of bourbon and tell me to drink the pain away."

"So it hurts?" he queried and he couldn't help his face scrunching up disgustedly at the thought.

"Of course it hurts Dishrag!" she barked, "I _passed_ _out_ in the shower. I didn't do that for shits and giggles."

"But you seem ok now?"

"Yeah it got a little better," she glowered, "Are you on_ its_ side?"

"No!" came his shrill defense, "No…I really think Carly would be better at this than me. Or my Mom! Let me call my Mom!"

"Oh yeah that's what I need, your crazy-flakes mother to give me a talk about the birds and the bees. Are you really that useless?" she throws at him, suddenly incensed again, "You _men_ are the reason we're in this predicament in the first place!"

"I...I'm sorry?" he offered pathetically, his hand retreating back to his side.

"Don't be sorry! Just don't ever touch me again!" she seethed, throwing her backpack over her shoulder and storming out of the gym. Freddie could have let it go there. He could have kept his mouth shut and never acknowledged that he was witness to Sam Puckett going through some form of emotional breakdown. But Freddie was brought up differently than that. Freddie was brought up to care (something he curses his mother for).

That night he went home and asked her about the "change". At first Mrs. Benson looked like she too was going to pass out, mumbling something about how she should have went down the castration route (Freddie never wanted to ask) but when he explained he had a friend who had no one else to turn to she softened a little. He thought later she must have believed it was Carly to whom he was referring, the girl who she frequently named the poor motherless lamb. He believed this was why she went out of her way to download information and write out notes, all of which she neatly organized into a bright pink folder with 'private and confidential' scrawled across the front. She warned him that if he were to even take a peek he could say goodbye to iCarly and his friends across the hall, and he wanted to tell her that there was no way in hell he would even consider reading what was in the folder but he liked to watch his mother squirm. He promised her he wouldn't and packed it in his bag the next day before school.

He didn't see Sam until lunch sitting with Carly and Wendy in the canteen talking animatedly about her sandwich. Judging by the horrified looks on the girl's faces, she was probably telling them the process of pig slaughter again. He interrupted with a loud clearing of his throat and while Wendy and Carly offered him bright smiles, Sam regarded him with disdain.

"Carly's answer is still no," she muttered, taking a bite from her sandwich, "It will always be no."

Honestly, he wondered why he bothered helping her. "Can I talk to you a minute?"

"No."

"Sam!"

"Ugh, this better be good Nub," she groaned, standing and dragging him off to the side by his shirt. He noticed she tended to do that a lot. "What?"

Without saying anything, he handed her the bright pink folder from his school bag and she stared at it, confused.

"I don't like pink," she said, still looking baffled.

"It's not about what it is," he replied, "It's about what's inside."

"Did you finally break into the government database like I've been begging you to do?" she asked, excited by the prospect.

"No. Just…look inside. Not now. But in private."

"Yeah 'cause that's going to happen," she snorted, tearing into the folder. He tried to warn her, tried to stop something that was inevitably going to end up with his head in a trashcan but it was too late. Her eyes scanned the first clean sheet of white paper she had pulled free and they slowly widen the further down the page she read.

"Did you?" she gasped quietly.

"No, my mom. Don't worry! She doesn't know it's for you. That's…our secret."

He was fully ready to try and catch the punches that were soon going to be shot his way; his eyes screwed shut anticipating the pain to come but nothing happened. He opened his eyes only to find hers gazing back, full of wonder.

"I could have done this myself you know," she informed him.

"But you wouldn't have."

"But I could."

"But you wouldn't."

"I'm just going to throw this in the trash you know that right?"

"Do what you want with it, I'm just the messenger," he shrugged as if he didn't care. But he did and he hoped she would read it, if only so that he didn't have to watch her cry at him again next month.

"Whatever Dipthong," she dismissed him uninterestedly after a beat, "I've got a sandwich waiting for me."

It was as close to a thank you as he was going to get and he accepted it by never telling anyone about her monthly meltdown. A second secret to add to the vault.

_iii._

The next secret they shared was not one they told each other but rather something they did together.

His and Sam's first kiss.

Even after it seemed a little odd for Freddie to even think up such a sentence let alone say it aloud in the privacy of his bedroom (because if he said it aloud to anyone else, he knows she would tear him a new one). Freddie was able to remember the fights that led to it, the explosion of anger that led to him walking out of school and hiding on the fire escape and her arrival with meatballs. Up to that point it was already entirely surreal but watching her on the windowsill, blonde hair bellowing in the wind, eyes wide like she's back to being ten years old all over again and _apologizing_ for hurting him. Freddie felt completely out of his depth.

He also remembered it as the first time since they were kids Samantha Puckett had ever been _real_ with him, sans the barriers of teasing and relentless berating. The apology felt sincere and he felt then that maybe, just maybe, this could be them from now on. The conversation was easy and so it seemed was suggesting that he kiss her. The minute he had proposed it (or was it her? He still couldn't really tell) he had the feeling that this was going to be their second big secret. Hence why they clarified beforehand that it would be. He remembered her gazing at him through nervous swirling blue irises, eyes wide at what might come and he thought it more than a little endearing. He wanted to kiss her then (wanted more than thought he had to after the suggestion hung between them like some needed-to-be-fulfilled prophecy) but he was hesitant with the idea of 'what happens after' clouding his senses. Because, he thought, what does happen after? What if it is awkward and horrible and he never wants to kiss any other girl again? What if he's a bad kisser/what if she is? What he never debated, what he never considered was what if it turned out to feel inexplicably _right_?

"Well…lean," she ordered.

So he did.

Their lips connected and it was everything a first kiss should be. Soft, gentle, barely moving, hands clenching around furniture (because they were both afraid to touch). It was nerve-wracking - the empty pit in his stomach told him that. He wondered if he would feel that with every girl he would kiss thereafter, and if he won't, he thought he might miss it. It ended all too soon but naturally nonetheless. She pulled back frowning wistfully, her eyes almost searching for something in his. He still doesn't know what that she was looking for.

There was a short space of silence in which Freddie decided that was _definitely _worth the wait. He was never sure what she thought. He never really cared to ask because he was afraid of the million punches that would reign down upon him. She said it was nice though so he assumed she was telling the truth. A compliment however small from Sam Puckett should never be questioned. When she left she said, "I hate you", and he returned the sentiment (because what else do you say?) and he watched her go. He put that down to one of the things they would never do, or speak of again. A secret if you will. He totted that up to three on his list.

_iv._

Sam was a dancer.

Not only was Sam a dancer but she was a _ballet _dancer. Thinking back, Freddie should not have been surprised. She had a dancers body; long, toned limbs, the freakish flexibility of a Chinese acrobat and rhythm like he had never seen before and probably would never see after. Again he shouldn't have been surprised because she was natural-born entertainer. It made sense for her to have more talents beyond the obvious.

One evening, he had stayed late after AV club to run over the equipment before the scheduled school play. It was nothing out the ordinary, indeed it was something he did regularly and without much thought to whom else hung behind after classes or clubs. Sometimes he hoped he would bump into Carly – he had this picture in his mind of them running into each other in the hall, deciding to go to dinner, maybe extending it to a movie. He would find her more fascinating than he already does and she would finally see him as the boyfriend material he hoped she would. It was one of the numerous Carly-based fantasies that plagued the awkward pubescent boy but that night it was the one playing on loop in his brain. He imagined it over and over with only small changes; different room, different clothes, different date, different _life_. He had resigned himself to knowing that for now, Carly Shay viewed Fredward Benson as no more than an adorable, doting admirer/friend. He did wonder occasionally what more he would _have_ to do for her to cast a glance his way, but such niggling doubt was often pushed far and away. Carly Shay was an angel – she could no wrong.

As he ventured along corridors to the exit, his Carly illusion playing like an LCD screen in front of his eyes but he was snapped out of his reverie by soft music coming from the dance studio near the art room. He immediately thought of Janet and decided to search for her to brief her on the audition tape she asked him to film. Freddie was often curious about the people who, like him, felt passionate enough about something to give up so much free time. He could count on one hand the otherwise would-be strangers he would meet in the halls coming out of Math club meetings, training or indeed dance practice. He got to know them and they were little extensions of himself – people who he had nothing and everything in common with. It was also a nice comfort that knowing these people, acknowledging them when Carly or Sam were around reminded his friends that he wasn't just _their_ tech-nerd. He liked that it bewildered them.

He followed the sound to the polished, mirrored dance hall nearly announcing his presence but stopping short when he realized that it certainly was _not _Janet Smyth practicing in front of the large panes of glass. There, dancing against the stretch bar was Sam, dressed in a smart black leotard and matching dark dancer tights with her feet expertly tied up in silk ballerina pumps. She didn't move like a classic ballerina though – she did something much more modern with her feet and hands, a lot less rigid and a lot more fluid. It wasn't like the Sam he knew. It was like someone else, someone utterly calmer had taken over her body moving in tandem with the gentle pop-ballad beat streaming over speakers. He hid back slightly in the doorway, aware of the reflective glass surrounding him. He doubted she would notice though; eyes closed, she no longer seemed like she was in the room. He did wonder why he chose to stay – why didn't he just turn and walk out, tell everyone about it tomorrow and embarrass her like she did him on a daily basis? Curiosity, he supposed.

She moved like water; her body worked in rolls, each point of energy following the next. Where her hand extended, her legs followed in a twirl, where her toe pointed a jump was sure to tail. It was sort of beautiful and kind of poetic he concluded. The idea that something so tough and crass could hide something so artistic and disciplined was indeed the revelation. She danced with speed and precision, each move becoming more complicated than the last. He could see her determination; the objective was to better each step and in turn beat herself. She was her only real competitor after all (or so she claimed). In amongst wild turns, her heel buckled beneath her and she fell with a thump to the floor, legs crossed in the middle.

"Shit," she cried, grasping at her foot.

"You ok?" The question came out before he could stop it and she turned her head, startled.

"Were you watching me?" she panted, still fighting to regulate her breathing.

"No...I…I was passing and I thought…"

"You are such a dweeb," she scolded, tone seething with venom. He was fully ready to turn and walk away, fulfill earlier urges to name and shame her around school before she called out his name in its full from, preventing him from moving any further.

"How much did you see?"

"All of it," he admitted, turning back around, "But I won't tell anyone if that's-"

"Yeah I know you won't because I will beat you to death will my shoes if you ever try," she warned, and the intention there was enough to give him nightmares of murderous ballerina's for weeks on end. "What I meant was…you seen my fall?"

"Uh…yeah," he drew out, puzzled by the question.

"Ok, well did you see how it happened?" she pressed, "I mean I can't figure it out. It always happens on that one step and I can never remember what I did with my feet just before…"

"Well you kind of tilted a little bit like…"

"Here hold on," she instructed, pushing herself up and noticeably grimacing at the pain in her ankle.

"You sure you should be-"

"Just watch the feet Nub."

She started moving again like before, running through steps albeit with diluted intensity. Still ghosting the doorway, Freddie finally decided to move in crossing the floor to nearer where she danced, trying to watch her feet but there was something about how her tied up hair hit the back of her neck that was _incredibly_ fascinating. The sound of her stumbling again broke him out of his musings and he was met with a pair of expectant eyes as she waited for his evaluation.

"Like I said," he coughed out, "You're leaning too much. You're throwing your weight off. At least…I think you are. I don't know the technical stuff."

"Leaning…" she pondered and adjusted her body slightly to the right, adjusting and adjusting until Freddie felt a surge of bravery and placed his hands on her hips effectively correcting her stance and balancing her out. Her glare did not go unnoticed but if she asked for his help she was going to get it in full.

"There," he told her, evaluating her position but being careful not meet her eyes, "You keep startin' like that then shifting out of it on the next step. Like the Tower of Pisa or something. Unless that's what you're meant to do and I'm completely wrong."

She stood straighter, her shoulders squaring proudly, but she was still staring at him with wildly expressive eyes. "No," she confirmed after a beat, "No. You're right, I must be tilting. Shit."

"Easy corrected though. You just need to find your balance right?"

There was an uneasy tension when she met his gaze, something sticking in her throat, something refusing to get anywhere near his. She tore herself away, stepping near the balance beam and launching back into her steps. He kind of liked how she kept her eyes closed, counting each methodical movement she made with her feet. He reiterated on the beauty - even if it was Sam Puckett.

The step came back around after the fifth turn and she made it, hopping evenly into the next section of the routine but in her satisfaction ultimately forgetting the rest and stopping to smile to herself.

"Awesome," she smiled, accomplished and he suddenly felt like he was intruding on something, awkwardly leaning on a balance stand.

That night he left without saying goodbye but for the same time each week after, he showed up. For the first while it was just to watch but eventually vocalizing his presence, talking to her over booming music. It was like a slow migration – every week he got further in the door until they were eventually sitting cross-legged on the floor munching on the fatcakes and energy drinks he just so happened to bring, each week, on that particular night. She told him how she started dancing he told her he thought she was pretty good. Conversation rarely trailed off the obvious (iCarly or school) but it was comfortable and Freddie liked comfortable.

It was an unspoken arrangement, another secret to add to the bank already beginning to bulge. Neither contemplated the repercussions of it because why would there be any? Repercussions occur when arrangements meant something. And this secret (repeated) rendezvous in the dance studio meant nothing in the grand scheme. At least that was what he told himself every time he fixated on her dancing.

Every time.

_v. _

"I saw you and Carly dancing in the Groovy Smoothie," Sam announced and if Freddie didn't know any better it sounded like she was bothered. But he didn't say anything because what was he meant to say? Was it meant to be a secret?

"Oh yeah?" was all he could muster, his voice crackling in the silence of the iCarly studio. Craning his eyes up to meet hers he was met with a narrow gaze and what sounded suspiciously like a disappointed chuckle.

"Whatever Benson, lets just get on with setting up these props."

He never did tell Carly what Sam had seen and Sam in turn never brought it up again. Another unspoken rule. It would not have mattered if shortly after she stopped showing up for dance practice at the school on Tuesdays and turned considerably colder to him in every other aspect of their friendship. He knew his getting closer to Carly and had changed something between him and Sam, but he wasn't exactly sure what that was.

Later, Freddie still wondered why it was such a big secret.

_vi. _

Freddie was aware of the talk that went on in high school locker rooms. He knew that while often crude, it was only playful banter – never to be taken seriously. Generally he avoided it, it wasn't something he was brought up to engage in but his peers were relentless in pushing conversation on him. The bigger he got, the more accepted he found himself. There was less shoving and pushing and more spirited jabs and jests. Freddie had no desire to be part of _that _crowd, being popular never really appealed to him (apart from the attention of cheerleaders, that he might have been able to reconcile with). Sometimes though, it was forced on him and he almost felt a little dirty. He wasn't in the business of making fun of anyone and that seemed like a large part of being popular in high school.

But locker room talk was _different, _almost invasive. He refused to engage but Jake Web had been unremitting. He poked and prodded spewing cheerleader's names over and over to get a reaction but Freddie did not rise, only offering polite smiles.

"C'mon dude," Jake droned, "What about that Carly chick? You _must_ have tapped that."

"Um…_no_," Freddie frowned disliking the turn the conversation had taken. Friends were especially off-limits in such discussions but he suspected the football team didn't care about his boundaries. Jake could see he had hit a nerve and grinned.

"Yeah I mean she does seem a bit _frigid_," he sneered, "But that Sam girl. Phwoar! I mean she's crazy as fuck but have you seen how she can bend? Besides, I'm sure all I'd have to do is offer her a fatcake and sh-"

The larger boy was cut off with a forceful blow to the chin, effectively knocking him sideways. He stumbled across the locker room floor before turning back to face his assailant. Freddie had never been a fighter, it just wasn't how he handled conflict but something primal had taken over at the mention of his friends. Something Carly would roll her eyes at and Sam would call him a complete tool over but this something was what he_ had _to act on. It was like he had no control of his fists – he saw the punch before he threw it. Jake ran at him, grabbing him around the middle and slamming him up against the locker room doors. What happened after was a blur of red, spluttering and fierce, inelegant movement with the intention to hurt. The brawl ended up on the locker room floor, with chants for each boy being repeated like a litany. He was at a disadvantage from the start. He had no experience in contact sports, least of all wrestling he could class as MMA standard but he gave as good as he got. After a while of scuffling on the ground both boys retreated to other sides of the room, bleeding and beaten.

"Time," Jake panted, signaling with his hands, "Enough."

Still breathing hard Freddie slowly accepted the fight was over, relaxing his stance a little, watching as the other boy turned to his friends.

"Besides, I'd much rather go tackle Sam Puckett anyway," Jake sniggered and it re-ignited the dulled spark in Freddie's fists. With a punch more animal than human he knocked his opposition one last time, the blow leaving the boy staggering a few paces before falling with a hard thump to the tiled floor. It took a while for his teammates to bring him round, splashing cold water on his battered face until he groaned in recognition of the feeling. If Freddie were honest, he cared little about rousing the meat-headed football player and he busied himself with retrieving his backpack and hurrying out before round two. He hid in the toilets for the last three classes, evaluating his wounds in the mirror. There was no way he was going to be able hide _this_ from his mother and he swiped blood from his gashed lip, rinsing his bloodied and battered hands in the white porcelain sink to try and rid himself of trace evidence. His phone buzzed in his pocket and moving he concluded was going to be a major problem, grimacing when his arm brushed along his ribs in the retrieval.

_6 missed calls. 4 texts. _

Carly was the origin of the calls and three of the texts, the first asking him about the fight he had been in, the next asking if he was still alive and the last asking where he was because they were waiting outside the school gates. One was from Sam and read simply '_way to go nub.' _Despite himself he smiled before catching another glimpse of his face in the mirror. He blanched at the reflection staring back at him, sighing as he began an attempt at clean up. Just then the door to the boys toilets swung upon with a clang and Sam marched in, jamming it shut behind her.

"Benson," she nodded, arms folded across her chest.

"Sam!" he exclaimed, "You're not allowed in here, this is the boys bathroom!"

"What you gonna do, take me down too?" she scoffed, her eyes fluttering down the length of his body, "Though right now, considering the state you're in, I'm pretty sure I could flick your forehead and you'd fall down."

"Sam," he growled out her name, hands curling around the edge of sink, "Now's not a good time."

"No shit Sherlock," she observed, eyes trailing his body for a second time, "Heard you went insane and kicked the crap out of Jake Webb. You _don't_ want to live to see your seventeenth birthday right?"

"Seriously Sam, _please_. Not right now," he pleaded quietly.

"Relax," she breathed, "Carly was worried about not being able to find you so I said I would check if you're ok."

"Oh God, I don't want her to see me like this," he moaned and she rolled her eyes.

"Calm down Rocky," she deadpanned, "You don't have to face the big bad Carly just yet. When I realized you were in here I texted her and sent her to get me Magicade. Told her you were asking for it."

"Magicade?"

"A fake drink that will keep her busy for a while," Sam filled in, "At least until we clean you up."

"I can clean myself up," he told her gruffly, the bruise under his eye beginning to itch. He reached up forgetting momentarily about his ribs and groaned when a searing pain burned through his chest.

"Yeah, you're doing a stellar job I must say," she mocked, smirking, "Stay there. I'll be right back."

She returned a few minutes later with a green first aid kit that he was damned sure she didn't keep in her locker. He cocked an eyebrow when he seen her lie it down on the sink edge in the reflection of the mirror but Sam had busied herself with fetching out gauze and cotton swabs and didn't notice his visible skepticism.

"Where on earth did you get that?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"Broke into the nurses office."

"Sam!" he whinnied (because the last thing he needed was to be involved in breaking and entering too).

"Would you just calm down? Man. You'd think a bare knuckle fighter such as yourself would be a little braver about these types of things."

She was smiling now and it was beyond contagious. Despite the agonizing pain in his jaw, he managed one of his own in the mirror, watching as she lined herself up behind him. She wordlessly guided him around to face her, evaluating the noticeable bruises and scrapes on his face before reaching in for something that looked like it would sting. She didn't make a deal about cleaning his wounds and he didn't bring any attention to it, but it still felt inexplicably _odd_ and he stood tensely against the sink, the porcelain digging into his lower back. He let out a sharp hiss when her fingers came down on the open gash against his lip and she tersely told him not to be a baby. He realized behind the Florence Nightingale routine, Sam Puckett was still very much alive and kicking.

"Did you do a first aid course or something?"

He knew it was a ridiculous question but he couldn't take the silence anymore.

"You _honestly_ think I would give up my free time to better myself? _No_. After you've been in as many fights and fallen off as many walls as I have you learn how to take care of yourself after. Take off your shirt."

"Huh?" he blinked, her smell a little bit intoxicating. _Was it vanilla or coconut? _He couldn't tell now she had stepped away.

"I said strip Benson," she ordered like it was no big deal.

"Uh Sam…I think I can take it from here."

"Oh please. Like seeing your scrawny body is going to make me want to jump your bones."

"That's not what I meant!" he defended shrilly, "The last time we went swimming you photographed me and photo-shopped out my shorts, posting the pictures on the internet! Excuse me if I'm a little hesitant for a repeat."

"Don't be a wuss," she reprimanded, pulling roughly at his shirt. The boy recoiled, crying out when she tugged on his arm and it was probably then she realized the extent of his injuries even if they were, in her opinion, self-inflicted. Sighing, they came to a silent understanding that if she just backed off a little he would undo his own shirt. His trembling hands came up to unhook the buttons, his fingers aching with every fastener he managed to free. Deciding she couldn't take much more of his pathetic whimpering's Sam stood forward, lowering his hands and replacing them with her own. She had always felt a sort of affinity with someone (even if it was the Nerd) who experienced similar injuries to her own through comparable escapades and misadventures. She supposed this was why she was so willing to help. On the last button she leant forward, sliding his black polo shirt off his shoulders and dumping the bloodied fabric in the sink next to them. She was careful to keep her eyes trained to the bruises and only the bruises ghosting his ribs and stomach. Delicate fingers traced angry red marks and the boy gasped silently at the sensation. He would later insist it was only because of the pain. His eyes clenched shut, Freddie mouthed the forty seconds it took her to apply the Arnica and was grateful when she finally stood back, affording him some space.

"I think you should probably see a doctor," she advised, "Just in case you've broken any ribs."

"I'll be ok. My life would be over anyway if my mom ever got wind of this."

"Your life _is_ over when Jake catches up with you."

"I'll deal with that when it comes," he heaved a breath, retrieving his shirt from the sink.

"You need me to-"

"I got it."

"You're not worried about Jake?" she queried.

"He's a jerk. I don't worry about jerks."

She nodded her comprehension before adding, "But still…the dude is big on revenge. And apparently you beat him down in front of the whole class in the locker rooms. I heard it was impressive."

"What else did you hear?"

"That you were defending a friend."

_(Defending me/defending you)_

"Yeah…well."

"Yeah, well," she repeated, "That's pretty stupid. Risking your life for a bit of locker room talk."

"I was hardly risking my life," he mumbled, still struggling with his buttons, "Does Carly know?"

"No. And she won't hear it from me. But I can't speak for the rest of our class."

The pair stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity but in reality was little more than a minute. Sam had an uncanny knack for weighting silences.

"C'mon," she urged finally, "We should probably find Carly. I'm beginning to feel bad for the kid."

* * *

><p>Freddie waited on his punishment the next day but it never came. Nor did it the day after that, or the day after that. He had heard that Jake had been persuaded to let the grudge go by some anonymous benefactor and Freddie never had to ask who this person was. He also never had to ask same said person to keep his secret.<p>

He kind of liked that he could trust her with it. Sam Puckett was getting better at keeping secrets at that weren't her own.

_vii. _

When Sam decided that kissing Freddie Benson was the only course of action that made sense, it was the world's worst kept secret (although her feelings up to that point had been the best). He remembered the force of her body slamming into his, her hands gripping his shoulders when she kissed him firmly in the center of his lips. He remembered not knowing what to do with his hands or eyes, whether or not to relax into it or stay rigid in fear she changed her mind and decided to beat him to death with her water bottle.

_Water bottle_.

He fixed his wide-eyed gaze there until she detached herself, taking several steps back as if gauging his reaction. In truth, he was assessing hers too, just in case he needed to run. When she mumbled her apology the only completely moronic thing to come to mind was "S'cool."

_S'cool?_ _Eleven years of schooling and that was the only thing he could muster? _

After that dazzling response she ran (understandably so) and Carly decided to take on role as mediator, going between her friends and offering new insight into the turn of events. It ended with the brunette deciding the only rational thing to do would be for them to go on a date. Freddie was never really consulted on the appropriateness of such a decision, or indeed if agreed, but he was told repeatedly it was the least he could do.

And so he did as he was told. He showed up at her house and picked her up, taking her to see a film uptown (she wore purple and he swore he never seen her look so beautiful). She _barely_ spoke to him through the night and he began to miss the raucous laughter and inexorable teasing. She was perfectly polite, answered his questions acceptably, but it wasn't Sam. At least not the Sam he knew.

Upon dropping her home he went through pleasantries (_we should do it again sometime) _but she wore the same bored expression she had on all night.

"Was it not fun?" he blurted and she looked like a deer caught in headlights.

"I _know_ you only took me out because Carly told you to," she uttered into the cold night air, "S'ok Benson. We'll just forget my hormonal meltdown. I mean - you felt it tonight right? There's nothing there."

Staring back at her, mouth slightly agape Freddie nodded along completely mystified by the turn the evening took (even though he expected it).

"Yeah…no…there's nothing there."

(But there might have been and he wanted to know for sure).

"Night Benson."

"Night Sam."

He felt _something_ when she walked away – his heart sank, his stomach dipped and there was this sinking feeling that he had just missed out on something important. He felt like _they_ had just missed out on something important. He never told her.

That secret he kept to himself.

_viii. _

"My Dad died yesterday," she declared, drunk in his bedroom. She had climbed up the fire escape and he had helped her clamber in. He was sufficiently appalled when he smelt the liquor off her breath and he told her this, reproaching her for being irresponsible. Now he felt kind of like a douchebag.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh," she echoed, teetering a little from side to side.

"Have you told Carly?" he asked like he didn't know.

"Yuuup," she slurred, tilting her beer bottle in his direction, "She just doesn't get it though. She _has_ her dad."

"It's hard for people Sam," he sighed, "When these things happen, sometimes you don't know what to say."

"_You _know though, right? You get it," she blinked, stumbling forward. What he knew was that she was not so subtly referring to his own father's passing when he was eight but he didn't know if he could return her sentiments. After all, he had always been under the impression Sam despised her now deceased dad and_ that_ he definitely struggled to understand.

"I know what it's like to lose a parent, yes," he affirmed, not really knowing what else to say. Not knowing what else to do.

"I don't care that he is dead you know," she claimed defiantly, tears wetting her eyes.

"Then why are you upset?"

"Because!" she cried like that should be enough of an answer, "Because…I don't feel _anything_. What the hell is wrong with me?"

"You didn't know him," Freddie filled in for her, "It's almost like a stranger dying except…except there's some part of you missing now. Like a hole."

"I don't ever want to be like him," she whispered after a lengthy period of unobtrusive silence. She moved so she now stood unbearably close, breath hot against his collarbone. "I don't want to die and for no one to care."

"Sam," was all he managed to get out before her lips came crashing into his, sloppy and hard. She tasted like cheap beer and cigarettes and Freddie decided he missed the old flavor. He thought it weird that he would even recall kisses before and he tried meekly to fend her off, dragging his lips away from hers. She instead trailed wet kisses down his neck and he had to remind himself of her vulnerability, before he shoved her back by the elbows. "No Sam."

"I hate you," she hissed out, tears streaming, "I hate you so much it makes me sick. And I hate him. And I mean that I really do! He was a horrible person. And I ha-…" she faltered, breaking the sentence with a sob, "I hate that you don't _want_ me. I hate that I can never have anything normal. I-I…"

He decided to kiss her again then.

(because it was the only thing he could think of to stop her crying)

His hands found her face, holding her there and wiping at wet tears desperate for her to feel any other way than she was feeling in that moment. He does wonder if it was a little forced and a lot contrived – he wondered if his reaction was honest to her, if it was what she deserved. In the end what he decided was that she deserved to be comforted, to _feel _comforted. Breaking deep kisses and panting breaths, Freddie led her to his bed, climbing in first before she followed. She was immediately on him, working her lips against his, hand's fumbling under sheets. He caught her wrist in a vice like grip bringing it around his waist instead, guiding her into his chest. He never imagined Sam as much of a snuggler so he wasn't surprised at her initial awkwardness. She struggled a little before finding a position in the crook of his arm. He planted a formless kiss atop of a mass of blonde hair and he felt her breathing steady. He was exhausted; it genuinely was all he could feel when he drifted off with a drunk Sam Puckett in his bed.

In the dark hours of early morning, he had all but forgotten about the small blonde curled up by his side until she stirred, rushing from the bedroom to the toilet. He thanked God for en-suites when he heard retching from the next room, a noise that in any other room was bound to wake his mother. He followed her, rubbing at his eyes and unconsciously tracing circles on her back as she heaved into the bowl.

"Freddie?" she croaked out, her mascara-stained eyes squinting in the harsh fluorescent light of his bathroom.

"Yeah I'm here," he reassured her, gathering her hair back.

"How did I get here?" she asked, her voice a throaty whisper.

"You don't remember?"

"I remember beer."

He chuckled, resuming the rubbing motion just below her neck. "You showed up at about two. You were upset."

"Sam Puckett doesn't get 'upset'," she denied, like he had been the one who had gotten completely inebriated and climbed in her window.

"Right well…then you showed up here to take me on a drinking binge which I politely declined and you then stayed so you could think up of cruel new nicknames for me and write them in permanent marker on all my stuff."

"Now _that_ sounds more like Momma," she nodded agreeably.

"Water?"

"Yeah."

He handed her a half filled glass from the sink and she accepted, gulping the contents in one swoop.

"My tongue feels like sandpaper."

"Evil beer."

She groaned in concurrence, pushing herself up to her feet using the basin as leverage.

"So….is drinking a pastime you plan to take up now?"

"Oh _hell_ no," she blenched, squeezing a little of his toothpaste onto her finger, "That's the influence of a Puckett family death for you. The whole lot of us get together for a drinking binge. Much healthier than talking about our feelings."

He watched as she rinsed her mouth out and began tugging her hair back into a rough ponytail with an elastic she fetched from her jeans pocket, all the while keeping her own gaze firmly fixed on her reflection.

"So you don't remember anything?" he clarified. Her eyes flew to his in the mirror, if only briefly, and she shook her head.

"Nope. As I said – I remember beer. I'm assuming I told you about my dad though?"

"He came up," Freddie confirmed.

"I didn't….cry did I?" she asked like it would be the most disgusting thing in the world if she did.

"A little," he lied, "Then you passed out in my bed."

"Ugh. I always thought I'd be an aggressive drunk."

"You thought about what kind of a drunk you'd be?"

"Again Benson, I'm a Puckett. Gotta be prepared."

He laughed again, shuffling his feet off the black and white tiles.

"Right I'm going to bail," she said, evidently accepting his version of events without question, "before your mother gets up and thinks I stole your virtue or some chiz."

"You sure you're ok?" he asked, his hand returning to her back, rubbing a line up her spine.

"Yeah I-"

Spinning around she collided with the hard wall of his chest bumping her chin there, her arms instinctively gripping his for support. He was taller now, much taller than she remembered and it was getting harder to meet his eye level. It also gave him quite the advantage in their not as frequent but still occurring wrestling matches. Right now though, all that annoyed her was that she knew when she did choose to look up she would be met with a pair of soulful brown eyes that she was getting rather used to. Since she had kissed him, it hung over them like a thick fog of teenage sexual tension. Of course Sam just couldn't be normal and tell him that maybe (just maybe) she might have wanted to try the whole dating thing again, _no_. Sam instead chose denial and jealousy as her emotional drug of choice.

"Sam," he whispered, his fingers tipping her chin up, "I know it hurts, but it'll get better. Promise. You'll figure it out."

"Don't be ridiculous Nub, you sound like some corny chick flick," she rebuked with little conviction, "Besides I'm fine."

Still she made no effort to detangle herself from his embrace, instead tracing languid circles just underneath the sleeve of his navy Galaxy Wars t-shirt.

"You didn't seem it last night."

"Last night," she breathed out, hushed, "Last night I needed someone to remind me they cared….that I'm wanted."

"You know me and Car-"

"Not like that Benson," she cut him off, gazing up through thick lashes.

"I thought you didn't remember?"

She shrugged, trying to stifle a gasp at the feel of his hands drawing along her lower back.

"I don't love you Freddie," she whispered back, inches from his lips. She ignored that he pulled back a little then. "I just want to feel something. _Anything._"

He considered her and she thought he was about to repeat his earlier act of chivalry, tell her that she was too emotional, too exposed, before he caught her lips in a sharp, swift kiss effectively silencing any protest she might have had. Her hands came up to his neck clawing the skin there and pulling her body flush with his. He thought she tasted better this time if a little dull. He missed the smell of coconut and fatcakes, instead replaced with something mustier. Something grayer and older.

_I just want to feel something. _

The words played like a mantra in his head and the pleading in her eyes - almost desperate to be close to someone, _anyone_. And, he thought, if this was truly what she wanted, it might as well have been with someone who gave a damn. He was not sure if that was the right reason to press her up against his doorframe and fondle her underneath her white t-shirt but it was the best he could come up with.

The pair stumbled past the doorway into his bedroom, hands fumbling for buttons and skin, before falling onto his bed with a spring of the mattress. His and Sam's relationship was of the extreme - this he concluded when her nails scrapped against his back, leaving scratches in their wake and her lips tore against his with violent kisses. If they weren't despising each other or making each other miserable they were completely infatuated with each other. _Obsessed. _Gulping ever so slightly at the thought, he aligned his body on top of hers, supporting himself on his elbows to keep from crushing her with his weight.

"Is this…is this ok?" he asked, hesitant.

She nodded, her lips already tilting towards him again and it was like gravity. He couldn't stop it even he wanted to, he was drawn to her like a drug addict to heroin. There was nothing poetic about it – he _wanted_ Sam Puckett more than he cared to think about. He did wonder if his valor was slipping, if he was taking advantage of her vulnerability but he had never known Sam to _not_ be sure of what she wanted even with precipitating factors. To be sure, he asked her one more time and she responded with an arch of her hips and another terrifyingly exhilarating kiss.

"Please Benson, please just be something else but a complete Nub for now," she whimpered lining his jaw with feather light kisses. He obliged, pulling away from her mouth and dragging a hand down her front, his fingers toying with her ribs as he went. She inhaled sharply when he reached the waist of tight denim and he paused, studying her face, before leaning down and kissing her again on the lips.

"You need to be quiet ok?" he told her and something about the combination of his words and the friction between them sent heat pooling between her thighs. She wanted to rebuke him for his arrogance, his assumption that he had the power to elicit such a vocal reaction but she physically couldn't form the words. Instead her eyelids fluttered closed when he came down to nuzzle against her neck, caressing the skin there.

"Freddie honey? Are you ok? What are you doing up so early?" came his mother's voice and they both froze, staring at his bedroom door.

"I…I got up early to work on an assignment Mom!" he called back, Sam still clinging to him.

"Do you want breakfast Pumpkin?"

"No! I'll join you in a while! Going to get a shower first."

Both waited, stunned into silence and staring at the bedroom door, listening to his mother's footsteps fade to the other end of the hall with a shuffle of slippers against polished wood. When out of earshot Freddie let out a shaky sigh and their brush with his mother was enough to snap him out of his sleepy, Sam-induced daze. The pair shared a meaningful look, Sam perhaps a little more disappointed than relieved, Freddie the reverse. She knew then it would go no further and a part of her had much rather they had gone through with it than have to deal with the teenage angst that would inevitably arise from how close they came.

"We should…stop. And it's not that I don't want to," he said as if reading her, "It's just…this was about you. It's not about me. Last night – you said you wanted normal…this isn't the right way to do this. Do you understand? _Jesus, _this is so complicated."

"Sorry," she mumbled into his chest, "I should have never asked."

"I should have never said yes. Not like this…I just…I wanted you to feel like I care. Because _I do_…care that is," he floundered over his broken sentences, pressing a hand into his forehead.

"I should go," she said after a beat, "It's getting late into the morning and unless you have really long showers your mom might begin to suspect something."

She sat up, buttoning her jeans and reaching for her hoodie that had become discarded in the night.

"Sam," he murmured her name affectionately and she craned her neck around, "A smoothie later? Just me and you?"

She nodded, opening his window with both hands and swinging a leg out. "Text me time and place?"

They did meet up later that day, and the day after that, and they day after that. It was almost like starting over new, especially forgetting anything that happened (that could have happened) on a sobering summer morning in Freddie Benson's bedroom. Freddie often wondered if they needed to collide just so they could start again. Secrets it had seemed made it all a little too complicated, but it was a secret that brought them together. An odd paradox and perhaps a little ironic but Sam insisted on keeping one other secret – him.

_ix. _

"C'mon in Sam! The water's awesome!" Carly encouraged from the pool, treading the deep end.

"Yeah it's awesome!" Freddie echoed, grinning like a child. Sam pushed over-sized sunglasses up into her hair and regarded her friends with a completely uninterested expression.

"I'm _tanning_," she said in a bored tone that matched her face, "I don't see why we have to go to the pool every weekend anyhow. There are other things we could do."

"Eh…because it's summer," Carly frowned, resting her chin on the pool edge.

"Yeah and besides me and Carly come to the pool every weekend," Freddie added, joining the brunette, "_You_ come up with some lame excuse and bail on us."

"Well then you would think you two geniuses would take the hint," Sam muttered, covering her eyes again.

"C'mon Sam, don't be a spoil sport!" Carly pleaded in that irresistible, puppy dog way of hers that not even Sam Puckett was immune to.

"Ugh!" she groaned out, flipping her feet off the lounger and crouching down to her best friend and (secret) boyfriend so they were near eye level. "Ok, you wanna know the truth?"

Both Carly and Freddie exchanged intrigued looks before motioning her on.

"I…I can't swim," she revealed, expelling a long breath.

"You-"

"-can't swim?" Freddie finished, looking amused. Indeed her both friends now shared furtive smirks and it was completely justified when Sam flicked them on the center of their foreheads as punishment.

"You two douchebags are spending too much time together working in that Pear store," she groused, unimpressed with their lack of empathy.

"Aw Sam," Carly drawled, reaching a wet hand to her friends bare leg, "Me and Freddie will teach you how!"

Sam looked horrified when Carly's voice raised several excited decibels and she hushed her friend by slapping a palm over her mouth.

"Could you _please_ keep it down? I don't want this getting out and ruining my street cred," Sam glanced around suspiciously, eyeing passers-by.

"We can be discreet," Freddie asserted, "we can even start now. No one will even notice."

She narrowed her eyes on him, if possible appearing more apathetic with his suggestion.

"Freddie's right! We could _totally_ start now."

"Aw guys," Sam whined, thrusting her fists into her thighs. It sort of reminded Freddie of a child throwing a tantrum and he smiled at how oddly charming he found it.

"Come on Freddie, help her in!" Carly ordered, proceeding to ignore the blonde's weak protests.

"I can get in myself thank you very much," she snapped, adding something about nerds and drowning and how she would never forgive them before she sat on the edge, cautiously dipping her feet and lowering herself down into lukewarm pool water. "Shit, there's no ground!"

With a wail more animal than human the blonde flailed a little in the water, grasping out for Freddie in blind panic. He caught her with a chuckle, supporting her at the waist. Sam however had decided the only way to remain completely safe was by wrapping her legs and arms tightly around his body, enveloping him in what he assumed was the ultimate Puckett bear hug.

"Why didn't you warn me?" came the muffled cry from his shoulder. Freddie turned to laugh with Carly but instead found her looking distinctly intrigued by her friend's newfound ability to touch each other without physically gagging. Freddie simply shrugged, rolling his eyes toward the bundle of fear curled around him.

"What are you doing?" she screamed when Freddie released one hand from her waist.

"I'm keeping us afloat," he grunted under her weight, "You don't want to drown right?"

"I swear to God Benson, if this turns out to be how I die-"

"Would you please desist woman!" he scolded, still struggling to move.

"Don't you tell me to – well I'm not really sure what you just told me to do but don't tell me to do it!"

She tugged at his scalp for good measure, hair pulling clearly being a quality of healthy communication in a relationship.

"Christ, Sam! Carly can you help?"

"No!" Sam interjected, clinging even harder to Freddie's straining neck, "No way. I'm not letting go."

"Sam, come on, just kick your legs out," Carly advised brightly, reaching out for her best friends legs.

"Carly, I love you. You're my best friend but I _swear_ if you so much as touch me I will kick your ass."

The next twenty minutes consisted of much of the same bickering - Sam protesting and thrashing out against the water, Carly and Freddie gradually trying to guide her into position. After the third time Sam's foot made near contact with his groin, Freddie began to wonder why even a swimming lesson had to be a violent tug of war. After Carly managed to convince her to let go of Freddie (who was pretty sure he had bruises the size of Asia on his back), he noticed a slight change in Sam's demeanor. The girls whispered lowly, Sam occasionally letting out a moan when Carly tried to pull away.

"Trust me?" he heard Carly ask.

Sam nodded mutely, sliding backwards but keeping a firm hold on her friend's hands. It hit him then – if he had asked her the same question, her answer might have been quite different. Indeed, he _knew_ her answer _would_ have been different. Sam didn't trust him at least not in the way she did Carly. He tried to rationalize that it was simply a close, girl bond that he could never understand, a friendship he could never quite touch. Regardless it nagged him and not because he was her boyfriend (or as she quite affectionately had labeled him, her boytoy), but rather because he was her friend and Freddie always had thought a friendship without trust was not really a friendship at all.

"Ok, swim to Freddie," Carly instructed, turning her around to face him.

"Oh _hells _no!" she objected, "He's all the way over there!"

"Yeah, and if something goes wrong, he'll catch you won't you Freddie?"

"Uh…yeah."

"Uh…yeah?" Sam imitated, unconvinced, "Dude, he'll let me drown! He has wimp muscles!"

"I won't!" Freddie protested, "I'll catch you. I promise."

From the safety of Carly's arms Sam stared over at him, her brow a tight line of bewilderment and uncertainty.

"If you don't catch-"

"I will."

She looked to Carly for reassurance of his claims and when she confirmed with a big grin, he could hear Sam let out a reluctant sigh.

"I want to live to eat another fatcake," she reiterated, "Do not let me die."

He held out his arms, gesturing her forward with hands and she complied, rather inelegantly floundering when she left the comfort of Carly's grasp. The water was a mad splash of noise and movement and he was careful to watch her chin stay just above the surface.

"Go on Sam!" Carly cheered from behind, clapping excitedly.

As she reached the halfway mark, the thrashing slowed.

"I can't," she gasped, panicking as water half-filled her mouth. He was there immediately, pulling her up and offering support in the form of his body which she resumed clinging to like a life raft.

"S'ok," he chuckled, relieved at the feeling of her burying her nose into the crook of his neck, "It's ok."

"I don't like it," she mumbled, refusing to lift her head.

"It's ok."

"Is she all right?" Carly asked concernedly, treading towards them. Freddie acknowledged her with a nod, swimming to the edge for support. "Why I don't I go get her a body board? We can take a break from the swimming lessons for today."

Carly gave one last smile (almost like she _knew_ something but Freddie wasn't exactly sure what it was) and she swam off to the other end of the pool in search of a floating device.

They stayed like that for a while, Sam's arms hanging around his shoulders pulling him close, her legs wrapped around his middle and when it began to look more than a little ridiculous Freddie tickled the length of her spine, stopping just under where her bikini clasped at the back. It had the desired effect and she giggled into his shoulder, her breath tickling the skin there. She added a shrewd kiss and he groaned involuntarily at the feel of her fingers dancing just under the back of his swimming trucks.

"Sam," he ground out her name, turning her back to the pool railing. She pulled her head up giving him an exaggerated pout. "You want to get out?"

"Yeah."

She hoisted herself up along the edge, sitting so her feet dangled just above the water. He joined her, sitting up and positioning himself so that he could follow her gaze out to a number of very young children in armbands playing in the shallow end.

"Look at those evil little rugrats," she seethed, slowly coming back to life, "Splashin' around, floating on the water. Enjoy it while it lasts kids!"

"You didn't learn how to swim at their age?" he enquired.

"Well when your mom is out dating every second guy that walks by, your sister is at boarding school and your dad is…well….guess no one ever really had time to teach me," she explained, squinting in the sunlight

"Surprised you didn't teach yourself," he remarked with a smile, "You don't seem like you need much help with anything."

"Never got round it."

"And you never told Carly?"

"It never came up," she answered curtly, "What is this? The Spanish Inquisition?"

"Nope. Just curious."

Her forehead creased as she considered something behind sparkling blue eyes, watching his profile curiously. Freddie knew that more than anything else, intensity tended to scare off Samantha Puckett, so he kept looking out over the pool, focusing on Carly at the other side bartering with kids for a body board.

"When I was six," she spoke again with an even voice, "Me and Melanie were playing near a pond. It had frozen over from the cold so we were skidding up and down. On my go the ice cracked and I fell in. The water was freezing. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think. I just kept swallowing water. It was up my nose and in my eyes and my clothes were weighing me down. Anyway I must have passed out but the next thing I knew I was in hospital. Turned out a neighbor spotted us and pulled me out. Mom had passed out on the sofa so she didn't hear Mel screaming. It's weird…but I don't remember much other than the water."

She stopped abruptly, eyes fluttering to where his hand had come over hers on the pool edge.

"I'm not afraid of water or nothing," she maintained, "Just…swimming never appealed to me after that. Don't like the water up my nose."

He nodded his understanding, still afraid to scare her off by speaking.

"Carly doesn't know. I'm telling you this…I'm telling you this 'cause I trust you. Even if you are a huge loser."

She shivered then, rubbing her arms in a feeble attempt to bring back heat. Wordlessly he reached around to the lounger behind, grabbing her overly large Girly Cow beach blanket and draping it over her slender shoulders. He moved his hands up and down in brisk movements, stopping only when her gaze met his. It was like fireworks or something else that only happened in corny chick flicks. They connected through expressive eyes, searching each other out. He knew she had shared with him a part of herself she had held onto for too long and he didn't know how to even begin to tell her just how much he appreciated it. He was pretty sure if he tried he would end up headfirst back in the pool. So instead he pulled her into his side, his lips landing on her temple. They stayed like that for a little while and if she cared that people could see she didn't mention it.

"Freddie," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Why is Carly trying to knock that kid into the water?"

"I think she's trying to steal his body board."

"Oh," she drew out, "…..Freddie?"

"Yup?"

"Will you and Carly teach me how to swim?"

He smiled into her hair, his fingers unconsciously gripping her shoulders that little bit tighter.

"Sure we will, Sam."

_x. _

"I've picked us a song."

"A song?" she asked, raising a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

"Yeah a song," he repeated, "Like _our_ song."

"Oh _Jesus_," she chortled dryly, returning to scribbling on her art pad.

"Don't you want to know what it is?"

"Not particularly."

"I think you'll like it."

"I doubt I will."

"Sam!" he whined, kicking her foot from the other end of the sofa.

"Ugh, what?" she demanded with a growl.

"I've got it on my iPear. I could play it for you right now."

"Don't you want to save it for when you're alone later so you can cry and masturbate to it?" she teased without looking up.

He glowered at her, his stare hard enough to wither flowers. "That's disgusting."

"Doesn't stop it from being true."

Silence engulfed his small two-bedroomed apartment and he watched her with interest wondering when she would give in. Evidently, she didn't plan on doing it anytime soon so without her approval he reached over and flicked on his iStation, scrolling down the playlist.

"Benson," she sing-songed his name but there was a malice in her tone, a pre-warning of sorts that he chose to ignore.

"You'll like it."

The sound of Coldplay filled the living room and Sam's only response was to groan, her head lulling back.

"What?" he asked, disgruntled.

"Coldplay, seriously?"

"It's a nice song!" he defended.

"It's ok yeah, but our song? It's about a girl who is broken and needs to be fixed or some chiz! That's totally not our song," she told him vehemently.

He wanted to laugh at the irony but realized if he did she would most likely break his iPear over his head, so he swallowed the sound hard.

"Maybe it's not only the girl that needs fixed?" he challenged.

"It sucks," she dismissed.

"And I suppose you have a better idea?"

"Actually, yeah," she said, grunting when she flexed forward to steal the MP3 player from his hand. He would never tell her but the concentration on her face, the way her lips pursed and her brow knitted together as she scanned through the track list was perhaps the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He was broke out of his reverie by the sound of Frankie Goes to Hollywood blaring from the small docking station.

"Sam! Be serious!" he griped, exasperated.

"I _am_ being serious," she argued, "Listen to lyrics Fredweird. Relax and don't do it. Wise words for our relationship."

"You're just making fun of this whole thing," he groused, snatching it back from her, "What about this?"

The music switched again, methodic guitar strings playing from the speakers.

"Fast Car?"

"Yup."

"Sure, except I'm not underage and pregnant and you aren't struggling with a drink problem," she deadpanned, stealing it right back.

"Right this is it now," she announced hotly, fingers working fast over the screen, "This is our song and that's the end of it."

It was considerably more upbeat than previous selections, playing contemporary drumbeats and sound effects through the room. He wasn't even entirely sure how it wound up on his playlist, not immediately recognizing the track.

"What is this?"

"Dan Black, U + Me," she replied quickly, like it was absolutely no big deal and she hadn't been listening to the song every night for two weeks and thinking about him. He knew with the way she kept her eyes carefully trained to her art pad and how her foot tapped to the music against his, that this indeed _was_ it and that Sam had decided this long before he brought it up.

"I like it," he acquiesced, grinning at her.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just don't go spreading it around, ok Nub?"

"I haven't told anyone about us, this is hardly going to be top of my agenda."

"Just as long as we're clear," she countered, giving him a dark look. He was still smiling at her so she rolled her eyes and called him a colorful name before returning to her sketchbook, leaving the song on repeat.

Next to their relationship, this was perhaps his favorite secret.

_xi. _

"Where's Sam?"

"Last I seen, she was dancing with Gibby."

Carly nodded, fanning her flushed face hot from the bustle of the dance floor.

"You having a good night?" she asked, following his eyes to the blonde dancing wildly by the speakers.

"I would be having a better one if Sam wasn't completely avoiding me."

"She's not avoiding you she's-"

"Ignoring my existence? Denying that she has anything to do with me?" he filled in bitterly.

"Freddie," Carly breathed his name, reaching a hand out to her friend.

"Don't do that Carls," he shook his head, "Don't try to defend her."

"Sam's just a little awkward about this sort of thing."

"Has she told you yet?"

"Well, _no_. Not exactly. But Freddie, I know anyway!" she said like it should matter.

"That's not the same thing and you know it," he laughed wryly.

"She just needs time," Carly tried again, forever the rational middleman.

"She's had six months," he spat, taking another swig of alcohol free beer.

"She will tell people eventually."

"And pigs will fly."

"You know what I suggest you do?" she switched her tone down a notch, taking a step towards him, "I suggest you enjoy prom night with your girlfriend because you won't ever get this chance again. Stop moping and go dance with her."

"It's just…I think I'm falling in love with her ya know? But I don't want to fall in love with someone who doesn't want to fall in love with me," he confessed earnestly, his eyes fixing on Sam just over Carly's shoulder. She looked beautiful – he told her this a million times (although hushed) on the way to the venue but he doesn't think she cared for his observations. Carly had chosen the long, dark blue prom gown, dotted with small sewn in black velvet stars and tied ribbon back and he ought to have congratulated his friend on impeccable taste. He did chuckle at the sight of matching black DC's peeking out from under the lengthy fabric but it was a stark reminder that not much would ever change.

"If you think that," Carly sighed, looking backwards over her shoulder, "You don't know her as well as you think you do."

Patting his shoulder, she gently pushed by him making her way to the makeshift bar on the other end of the hall. She stopped suddenly, turning back and calling his name.

"Sometimes nothing will happen without a little nudge," she suggested with a playful smile and Freddie slowly returned it, contemplating the not-so-subtle recommendation with weary caution.

Pushing Sam into it would perhaps be too harsh, too _quick_. She had never been the girl known for displays and gestures, especially not of the romantic sort. Indeed he was sure she would be happy if, for the rest of their days, they continued with back and forth banter in the halls and stolen kisses underneath the bleachers. He wondered then if it was the thrill of secrecy or him that kept her interested. If the former was true, he supposed he had nothing else to lose. Fixing his gaze on Sam who waltzed dramatically with Wendy to the swelling beat of teenage angst, Freddie decided then that he was all in and that she wasn't allowed to keep him out anymore. Without risk, there would be no gain. He strode purposefully forward, through the heavy throng on the dance floor, right up to where she stood.

She looked startled when his hands came up to cradle her face, pulling her forward into a ferocious kiss. He was terrified of rejection, scared she would stand stoic and unresponsive to his hands curling in the soft waves of her hair, his lips passing over hers with the most genuine of intentions. But she didn't. She kissed him back with like for like intensity, her own hands finding themselves at home gripping the lapels of his suit jacket. He smiled against her mouth, images of her dragging him around (years ago) by his shirtfront flashing in front of his eyes. Without realizing it she smiled back, leaning up on her tiptoes so their bodies aligned. He could have stayed like that for the rest of the night, half of him completely comfortable wrapped in her arms, the other half afraid of what she was going to do to him when they eventually pulled away. In the end, the need for air won out and he detached himself from her mouth, slowly opening his eyes. She stared back at him, bemused.

"Want to tell me what that was all about?"

He watched her look around at the people on the dance floor, checking for their reactions. Wendy and Gibby seemed the only pair to gawk unabashedly at the couple, Wendy visibly swooning, Gibby visibly befuddled. Her question had the intention of chastisement but lacked the conviction to make it work and with the way she hooked her arms around his neck and let him hold her at the waist he _finally_ knew that she wasn't running anywhere. He smiled down at her then.

"I got tired of keeping secrets."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I know, corny ass ending right? And I'm pretty sure I lost my way somewhere in the middle but I clawed my way back. This is perhaps my longest iCarly one-shot and originally it was meant to be a chronological telling of disjointed secrets between them but it sort of all just fell together plot wise. I don't know, it wasn't intended but that's how it worked out. If anyone's curious, there is a genuine song called U = Me = and it's by a dude called Dan Black. Fantastic song, I could totally see her choosing something like that. And to be an even bigger girly girl, I totally had a song in my mind for the last part and if any of you are interested in what inspired said part the song is called "Don't Hold Your Breath" and is by Athlete. I half-assed beta'd it, so there is probably some grammatical errors and typo's. **

**Also a big thanks to my fellow iCabal members. They are far too nice and supportive of me even when I don't deserve it. I'm also acutely aware of being in the presence of some extremely talented people, and more than that I'm honored that many of them are now good friends. They rock.**

**After this is published I may be taking a break for a while. I have a duck load of work to hand in by the 23****rd**** of May so I'll need to concentrate on that. But I really do adore you guys, all the sweet reviews and kind things you say just astonish me. Every time I get added to author/story alert I'm constantly surprised, it's so awesome. If you'd like to leave a review, please do. I love reading them. Peace out guys!**


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